


No Escape

by trash_freak



Series: RickMorty Trash Pile [2]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Child Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, Forced Orgasm, Frottage, M/M, Manipulation, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, dubcon, i honestly love myself for what i have created here, rick overwhelms poor morty, sex on a washing machine, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 15:38:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7444594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash_freak/pseuds/trash_freak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day after the events of 'That's My Boy', Rick wants to talk to Morty. In the utility room.</p><p>Look, we all know where this is going, okay. Embrace the sin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Escape

Morty is in the utility room squinting at the box of washing powder, trying to stealthily wash his sullied sheets, when Rick comes to find him. His concentration is suddenly and devastatingly derailed by the quiet click of the door closing behind him. The sound seems to echo that of the night before, the latch sounding so much louder than it is in the tiny room. With a sense of dread, Morty turns to face Rick; has to strain his neck a little to look up, Rick’s stood so close. He clutches the box of washing powder close to his chest, like a shield.

“Whu-what’s up, Rick?”

“I need to- need to talk to you, Morty. I-I-I need us to be- I need to know we’re on the same page, Morty, about, about what happened.”

 _Oh, god,_ Morty thinks. Repeatedly. _Oh god oh no oh god._

Some part of Morty – some apparently naïve part of him – thought maybe Rick would pretend he didn’t remember. Some foolish, ridiculous part of him _hoped_ they’d never bring it up again, and they could go out on another trip together, and Rick would endanger their lives, and Morty would bitch and moan, and then they’d come home and watch TV and it’d be like it never happened. Rick steps closer, and Morty’s throat is too dry to swallow nervously. He tries, but it gets stuck halfway and he’s left stranded, struggling to keep back a gasp.

“Is- i-i-i-i-is that page that we should pretend it never happened?” Morty manages to say, voice rough with nerves. He presses himself back against the washing machine, but the room is so small and there’s no space between them at all.

Rick puts his hand atop the washing machine at Morty’s back, looming above him and reinforcing the fact that Morty is trapped. There’s no escape. Figuratively and literally.

“Morty,” Rick murmurs, voice low, sounding like a threat to Morty in his tense, anxious state. “Y-you trying to m- _urgh_ -make out you didn’t enjoy it? Trying to s- trying to say you weren’t fucking _begging_ for it?”

Rick’s too close, taking up Morty’s air and making him pant. His voice is a rumble in his chest, face predatory, and Morty’s whole body feels weak.

“Rick, I-I-I-I-I-“

“ _No,_ ” Rick cuts in, sharp, scolding, and Morty’s mouth snaps shut. Rick’s breathing heavy, eyes flickering all over Morty like he can’t decide where to look, and he lets out a frustrated breath. Then, as Morty looks up wide-eyed and uncertain, Rick softens, transforms, and he’s gentler when he says, “I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t mean to scare you.” His fingers comb through Morty’s messy curls, down to rub at Morty’s tightly-held shoulder, and Morty lets out a slow breath of relief.

Rick’s careful when he pries the box from Morty’s tight grip, soothes Morty’s hands with his own until he relents, and reaches past Morty to put the box of powder safely out of the way. Morty doesn’t know what to do with his hands now, and he feels awkward and warm and antsy. The steady rhythm of Rick’s fingers squeezing and kneading his shoulder feels nice, and Morty feels like his body is creaking when it slowly starts to relax.

“What- w-what d-did you mean then, Rick?” Morty asks – wants to demand but his tone of voice doesn’t seem under his control.

Morty’s sort of half expecting it when Rick’s hands slip down his chest to his thin hips, but it still makes his stomach swoop and his heart hammer hard. He isn’t expecting it at all when Rick’s grip gets tighter and so Morty flails a little when Rick lifts him up, hands scrambling for Rick’s lab coat for fear of falling, before Rick’s moving him to sit atop the washing machine. Morty’s legs fall open without a thought and Rick’s amused, barely-audible whisper, “ _little slut,_ ” makes Morty hot with shame.

“Aw, geez, Rick, I-I-I’m really not sure about this,” Morty stutters, pushing against Rick’s chest and trying to shuffle back.

Rick’s hands slip behind the bend of Morty’s knees and pull, Morty’s butt sliding against the smooth, white surface to teeter right on the edge. When Rick steps in, presses flush against Morty, they fit together perfectly, almost face-to-face with Morty perched atop the machine the way he is. Rick leans in, and Morty’s expecting his tongue pushing its way inside Morty’s mouth again, and his brain scrambles about trying to decide if it’s excitement or fear he’s feeling, but Rick doesn’t move to kiss him. He’s reaching back, busying himself with something behind Morty, but Morty can’t turn to see with Rick crowded in so close. Then there’s the click of a button, and the rush of water filling the machine beneath Morty’s ass. He knows how loud the hum of the washer is, he knows no one will hear whatever Rick is planning, and he’s filled with anticipation and dismay. _No one will come to help,_ Morty thinks in a panic, and then, in a darker part of himself, _no one will interrupt._

Rick kisses and licks and nips at Morty’s throat, and Morty lets him, puts up no fight against Rick’s work-rough hands inching up under Morty’s shirt, and when Rick digs his fingers _just right_ into a place low on Morty’s back that always aches from bad posture Morty _whines._

“Shh, baby, quiet, we don’t want anyone hearing,” Rick mumbles against Morty’s skin. “Keep quiet for me, just a couple minutes, ‘til the machine gets going.” Morty’s nodding, gripping Rick’s coat to pull him closer, and Rick hums, pleased. “That’s my boy.”

Something ugly and needy rears up inside of Morty at the praise, and he buries his face into Rick’s shoulder to keep in the sound he wants to make. His legs inch just a little wider, wanting Rick closer, closer, _not close enough,_ and he spares a second to think of how pathetically easy he is before thought becomes impossible as Rick rolls his hips.

The friction is nowhere near enough to be more than a tease, and Morty can’t believe how much he loves it. He’s breathing hard, filling his lungs up with Rick’s musky, musty smell, and when Rick rolls up into Morty again he chances letting a noise escape from his mouth into the safety of Rick’s shoulder. It makes Rick gasp and pant into his ear, and Morty feels crazed, feels desperate.

He waits for Rick to ease his zipper open like he did last night, but Rick just rolls his hips again, again, again, and the washing machine starts slowly spinning, vibrating a little beneath his ass, and Morty’s pleading, “Please, Rick, I need – I _need_ ,” but he can’t finish the sentence, the words stuck, lodged at the back of his throat. He feels like gagging; his stomach is turning, flipping like he’s falling, and his eyes are tearing up and oh, god, he _needs_.

“What d-d-do you need, Morty, baby, tell me, say it, Morty, tell your Rick what you need, Morty, I’ll look after you, say it, Morty, tell me.” Rick’s panting, breathless, and Morty can only hear him over the washing machine because his mouth is pressed so close to Morty’s ear.

“ _I need you to touch me,_ ” Morty says in a rushed mumble against Rick’s dirty lab coat, and Rick, that bastard, says, “I can’t hear you, Morty.”

Morty pulls his face back, riled and frowning, and says, irate, “Rick, w-w-w-why, why are you such a- such a _dick?_ ”

Rick pushes his face close to Morty’s, noses touching, and the move is a threat but his words are full of intense want, an almost-moan, “Y-you want me to put my hands on you, Morty? Want me to jack you off better than you ever figured out how to touch yourself, even with all that practise you get in?” He leans back in close to Morty’s ear, licks along the shell of it, his breath sending a full body shudder through Morty when he asks, “You wanna come, baby boy?”

“Yes,” Morty gasps, pushing his hands inside Rick’s coat and up under Rick’s shirt, wanting to feel the warmth of skin. The vibration of the washing machine is getting more powerful, and Morty’s stomach muscles are tensing, and Morty’s sweating an embarrassing amount, and he feels like he’s about to lose his goddamn mind. 

“Say it,” Rick demands, and Morty starts running his mouth immediately, “I-I-I w-want it, I want tuh- to come, Rick, touch me, please, I can’t- I need- _please?_ ”

Rick’s unbuttoning his trousers instantly, pulling his erection free, then deftly undoing Morty’s jeans to pull him out too. This time when he rolls his hips, the length of his cock brushes along Morty’s, catches against the head, and Morty _moans._

Rick’s hand clamps down over Morty’s mouth, and he’s whispering, frantic, “Not too, _uhhhh,_ not too loud, baby, we- w-we get caught, that’s it, Morty, end of the line.” His wheezing breath speeds up a little, in time with his long thrusts. “I’d have to leave, Morty, if anyone finds out, I’ll _have_ to, don’t want to, Morty, _fu-uuck,_ don’t wanna leave you, baby, that’s why we gotta, _ohhhh yeah…_ ” his voice trails off, losing his train of thought as Morty wraps both hands tight around the two of them.

Morty can barely breathe, and his head is spinning, and he can feel his heartbeat in his ears, and the washing machine is on spin now, vibrating hard against his ass and balls. He jerks and shudders and comes apart, near-wailing against Rick’s palm, and he doesn’t even care that he’s crying, or that he’s kind of drooling a little, or that he’s got jizz on his chin from the force of his orgasm. Rick’s fingers wrap around one of Morty’s now slack hands, and he thrusts into it, fucking the ring their palms make. Rick stinks like old smoke and stale booze and damp, and he’s drooling on Morty’s shoulder, and Morty can’t care about any of it beyond the buzzing vibration prolonging the pulsing in his dick to a near-painful degree, and the way Rick’s stomach muscles feel beneath the limp palm Morty has pressed against Rick’s belly.

When Rick comes, his breath sounds shaky against Morty’s neck, and Morty’s dick gives one last jolt at the sound before everything becomes too much and he’s squirming, trying to get away from the relentless vibration of the washer. Rick puts both hands to Morty’s hips, pushes him down against the machine and holds him still, making Morty whine desperately and gasp out, “Please, Rick, it’s, i-i-it’s, _ahh,_ too much.”

“I need you to promise, Morty, promise me you’ll keep this secret, Morty, promise me, and I’ll make you feel so good, baby, you’re so good baby boy promise me no one’ll find out Morty.”

“I promise! I promise, Rick, oh, _oh!_ ” Morty’s dick jumps and spasms, his gut twisting up hard, his heels coming up to pull Rick in. His toes curl with such force they cramp up, his little fists creasing Rick’s coat and clinging as he’s cast adrift, riding a wave of pleasure-pain. Little spurts of come struggle from his spent dick and Rick picks him up again, holds him to his chest for a few seconds before lowering them both to the floor as gentle as his old muscles will allow.

“You’re a good boy, Morty,” Rick murmurs, petting Morty’s hair and kissing his tear-stained cheeks. “So good for me, did so well, I’m proud of you, Morty, baby, my baby boy, so proud of you.”

Rick sits back against the now still washing machine and pulls Morty to lean against him, back to chest, Rick’s thighs cradling Morty’s hips, keeping him upright, keeping him still.

 _There’s no escape,_ Morty thinks as he dozes off, wrung-out and exhausted. He _hurts,_ and it’s so good he can barely stand it. He feels dazed, on the brink of tears or vomit. He feels secure in Rick's possessive hold.

“It’s you and me, Morty, Rick and Morty,” Rick is mumbling sleepily behind him. “Forever.”

**Author's Note:**

> 'That's My Boy' was going to be an on-its-own bag of trash, but, hey, I accidentally added to the pile.
> 
> I'm not sorry.


End file.
